


The World Moves Beneath Us

by kilodalton, strange-charmed (kilodalton)



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-08-06
Packaged: 2018-01-13 16:43:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1233730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kilodalton/pseuds/kilodalton, https://archiveofourown.org/users/kilodalton/pseuds/strange-charmed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d promised himself he’d never again be without her, that he wouldn’t ever have to be. But then he gets a glimpse of his future. Collaboration between kilodalton and brighterthanroses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

He would have thought the moment might have called for a bit more ceremony, perhaps. Not _literally_ a ceremony, of course—although to be fair, Time Lords _were_ quite a ceremonial people, with an exacting tome of instructions on how to properly memorialize a myriad of occasions. Even so, he is well aware that he’s not completely Time Lord anymore and that even when he was, he still never would have expected the pomp and circumstance they so loved. But at the bare minimum, the moment might have been worthy of a bit more recognition, perhaps a joyful cheer to punctuate the event, or a hushed, whispered moment of reverence. Anything really, to mark the culmination of this long-fought effort. It’s been a whole year of waiting for the TARDIS to be fully grown, of scouring the Torchwood archives for the bits and bobs to make it all work. A whole year of dealing with Torchwood and UNIT and their regulations, of Vitex parties and Jackie Tyler and _her_ regulations—and despite it all, despite all the odds and obstacles, the TARDIS is finally, _finally_ complete. It’s freedom, and it’s home, and it’s _beautiful_ , and within the next few moments, it will once again all be within his reach. He exhales as he twists the last screw of the power adapter into place with his fingers, the finishing touch taking no more effort than the flick of his wrist.

There.

_Done_.

His fingers hover, almost quaking with anticipation, above the demateralization lever. Every nerve, every synapse firing in his hand burns for the touch—the sound—of home that he knows will be his reward for this long year of sleepless nights and early mornings. He can feel the metal switch just under his fingertips, buzzing with the energy of pent-up time waiting to burst and fill the heart of the TARDIS with energy and life, almost as drawn to him as he is to it—this, after all, is what being a Time Lord with a TARDIS is all about. His fingers begin to curve around the gear, to test it, to test even his own ability to cobble this together with inferior components from a backwards universe. Even as his hand curls around, needing it almost as much as his lungs need air, he hesitates and his fingers still—as much as he craves this, this isn’t right.

Rose should be there, Rose would _want_ to be there. They’d promised each other they’d do this together. She trusts him. Their trust had been hard-fought too, won with what had at first been stuttered conversations, awkward and one-sided, trying to patch the holes in their relationship with his promises. Promises he can’t break now. No more, he’d said, he’d never leave her behind again, never let her watch the TARDIS dematerialize in front of her again while he made her decisions for her. He’d _promised_ her, and no matter how much he aches for this, he has always ached for her more.

His eyes flick towards the TARDIS door, and he makes between that is partway between a sigh and an impatient growl, stumbling over his feet to run and find her, to bring her back here. His legs are on the move before his body has the time to turn itself all the way around.

He trips out of the TARDIS and clutches the doorway for balance, his eyes falling on her as she stands at the sink with her back towards him, busily clipping the stems of the chrysanthemums Jackie had given her for her birthday just a few days ago. He doesn’t hesitate, coming up instantly behind her, reaching his arms around her from behind, crisscrossing over her hips and abdomen as he nuzzles his face into her neck.

“Hey there,” she says, leaning back into his arms. There’s a teasing lilt in her voice and he snuggles closer towards her, pulling her in towards him.

“I’ve got a surprise for you,” he murmurs, not even trying to hide the elation in his voice. “Come on.”

Smiling coyly, she dunks the flowers into a vase sitting on the countertop, shutting off the faucet and shaking her wet hands out. She turns around in his arms, pressing her lips against his with a contented hum, scraping the nails of her damp hands through his hair and across his scalp.

“What is it?” she asks, and he can feel her mouth under his, lips taut in a grin. He knows she’s trying to tempt him, nipping at his bottom lip and he could so, so easily be drawn into this—into _her_ , put that countertop to good use, but he groans, half in desire and half in frustration.

“Come see!” he says as he backs away, tugging on her hand.

“Must be important, you’re not even complaining that I’ve mussed your hair!”

His only response is to run his free hand through his hair and wink salaciously as he pulls gently on her hand one more time.

They stumble as one into the TARDIS, and he comes to an abrupt stop just inside the door. The momentum of her body propels her into his own, and he draws her close, wrapping an arm around her. Wordlessly, he untwines their fingers and points to the console, to the contraption he’d been working on for _weeks_ and had just now finished constructing, and she stills, her smile fading into a look of wonder.

“Is that—” she whispers, her voice breaking off.

“Yeah,” he says, a smile growing across his face. “It’s done.”

She throws her arms around him, once again drawing him down into a kiss. This time he doesn’t resist, his laugh and her giggle intermingling with their shared breath.

“Well, c’mon!” she says finally, and she’s the one to break away from him this time, giving him one last peck on the lips as she pulls him excitedly to the console.

One of his hand curls around the lever once again, as if it is second nature, and he looks to her once again for confirmation.

“Are you ready?” he asks.

“Always,” she says. Despite her wide grin, there are tears in her eyes, and he gently raises his free hand to cup her face, stroking the apple of her cheek with his thumb. Happy tears—for once—he thinks. Not for the first time, he promises himself to never, _ever_ let her down again. He kisses her one more time, stroking his hand through her hair and lets his fingers find her own.

Holding her hand tightly with one hand and the lever with the other, he takes a deep breath. _This is it._ With a grin, he flicks the lever upwards, holding his breath in anticipation.

Nothing happens.

His eyes rivet to hers, his mouth agape, his expression both sheepish and shocked. She loses her composure entirely, the musical sound of her laughter filling the entire console room.

“Well,” he starts, looking from her to the lever and back to her again. “It might take a little extra work?”

“Right,” she says, still laughing, crossing her arms in front of her for a brief moment before pressing her lips to his one more time. “I’ll finish with the flowers then. Come find me when you’re done!”

He waits until she leaves, the door clicking behind her softly, and then turns around once again to face the offending lever with a deep sigh. Surely it must be just a simple glitch—the wiring perhaps? He takes his glasses out of the breast pocket of his suit and plops down unceremoniously on the grating, leaning in for a closer look.

_Aha_. There’s the problem, definitely the wiring. It’s just a small bit of red wire dislodged from its spot against the black wire, but it makes all the difference. He quiets the small voice inside his head that tells him that with his new human body, he probably should have deigned to wear his glasses to begin with when working on such fine detail.

Skinny though he is, his only problem is being able to actually _reach_ the damn thing. He reaches his long fingers in to nudge the small red wire, hovering just out of his grasp. Grimacing, he leans down further, bracing himself on the dematerialization lever so he can twist his body just those last few centimeters. He feels his fingers tenuously come into contact with the wire and—

_Got it._ He smiles, victorious.

As he makes one final motion, shoving the red wire back into its rightful place amongst the circuitry, his hold on the dematerialization lever slips. Releasing the wire, he grips on to the lever with all his weight. It’s a sudden, desperate, very human reflex to not lose his balance and go crashing into the grating face-first, and the lever begins to dislodge with his motion. He feels the crackle of energy and sees the glow of vortex energy fill the central column of the TARDIS before he begins to hear the dematerialization groan. That sound… that _song_. It’s the universe and freedom and everything he’s wanted, everything he’s worked for—except for Rose. _Shit_ , Rose—she’s not here, and he promised he wouldn’t do this without her. He grabs the lever with both hands, slamming it back down into place. The TARDIS has dematerialized, he knows that for sure—and his action should have been quick enough to make it rematerialize immediately in the same place. Rose would forgive that, wouldn’t she?

Without a moment’s hesitation, he finds his feet and sprints to the door, explanations and apologies hovering nervously at the tip of his tongue. She’ll understand, of course she will.

“Rose?” he calls, slowly opening the door and peering out into their flat. His voice is cautious and he’s not sure what he expects. Best case, a smile—a joke that he finally got it working, a quip about the fact that he’s put his glasses on and maybe that made all the difference. Worst case… he swallows thickly. He’d spent so long trying to earn her trust back—she couldn’t think he’d leave her behind on purpose _again_ , would she? He grimaces. Of course she might. But they’re a team now—a _proper_ team now, he’d meant every word he’d said about that.

“Rose?” he calls again, taking a step out of the TARDIS.

It takes him a split second— a hairsbreadth of time pinched between the moment he opens the door and the moment his foot plants itself on the carpet—that he realizes that this isn’t right… something is off. He hasn’t had much of a chance to test his time sense, stuck in the linear life as he’s been, but it flares full force now, just as strong as it ever was when he was a full Time Lord. He turns his head first left, then right, attempting to catalogue any change—any anything—that’s changed in the past minute since he dematerialized. It’s their flat, yes… it’s the same sofa, the same carpets and doors and pictures on the walls. The same cluttered kitchen table, even, the last rays of the setting sun reaching across it, the long thin fingers of light stretching out, almost eerily. Everything’s even in the right place, from the Torchwood reports lying forgotten, shoved onto a shelf in a nearby bookcase to the stilettos Rose wore to the last Vitex fundraiser, kicked off near the front door. The bouquet of chrysanthemums is even here, its vase now sitting proudly in the center of the mantle. He frowns… something isn’t right about the flowers. He strides over to the vase, and wrinkles his nose—even from a meter away he can smell the mildewed water, which has nearly evaporated down past the level of the stems. The flowers themselves are dry, nearly dead, the neglected petals already beginning to fall, curling in on themselves as they dry on the mantle. They were new a few minutes ago, and the lifespan of a bouquet when well-tended is up to thirty days—though from the looks of it, this bouquet does _not_ look well-tended.

He swallows quickly and turning around, the significance of this not lost on him. He’s potentially a couple of weeks late—maybe even a whole month late. Rose is going to kill him.

He walks to their bedroom, his mind reeling. Clearly he’s gotten the coordinates wrong—she’ll be angry of course, and hurt—he’d promised he’d wait for her but it wasn’t intentional, she’d have to understand that. She’d _have_ to. He’d explain what happened—she’d believe him, of course she would. Why would he lie? He came back for her after all, didn’t he? And it’s only been… a couple of weeks? A month at most. Hardly any time at all really, when you think about it.

“Rose?” he asks, urgently this time, at their bedroom door. He freezes, barely recognizing the sight before him. The room is an utter mess—at least his half of their room is. Rose’s side of the bed is neatly made, the top of her dresser pristine. But on his side of the room… bits and bobs of detritus he doesn’t even _recognize_ litter the floor. Had Rose done all this in the time he’d been gone? He steps forward to take a closer look.

No… it wasn’t Rose who created this mess. It _couldn’t_ have been Rose.

These are notes in his _own_ handwriting, circles and loops in his native language. But when did he write them? He lets his eyes fall over them, trying to place them… they are clearly notes he was writing about building some kind of object. But what? He doesn’t recognize it at all… what in bloody hell was he trying to do? He stares at the notes—and the realization smacks him so hard that he nearly takes a step back from the force of it. These are notes he hasn’t written yet—he doesn’t recognize a single one. He lets out a sigh, both curiosity and relief, and takes a step forward. If he hasn’t written them yet, but they are here, that can mean only one thing—he’s seeing his future—this means he was here _before_.

More to the point, this means he can go back—this means he _needs_ to go back, in fact! He smiles. This certainly isn’t the first time he’s crossed his timeline or happened upon his future self, but it is the first time this has happened in _this_ universe, of course.

“Rose?” he calls, his voice relaxed from the reprieve the universe has given him, as he turns back towards the TARDIS. “Are you here? I think I’ve made a mistake and landed a bit late, so I’ll just pop on back—”

It’s only as he passes the kitchen table that he sees the greeting card, lying on its side, abandoned next to a haphazardly torn envelope that had never made it to the bin. He stares at it, his eyes only briefly taking in the harsh white cardstock, and the painted pink carnations with stems intertwined like lovers’ fingers, before settling on the words…

_So sorry for your loss._

His breath stills, and he feels his time sense that something is wrong— _very, very_ wrong—ricocheting and crackling through every synapse of his brain, telling him to _walk away, now_. But the raw need to know sizzles within him, threatening to burst—it’s too human… he’s too human now. He can’t help himself. His fingers reach for the card, the thick paper heavy against his fingers. It splays open as his fingers brush against it, and he can only make out a few words but _Dear Doctor_ and _Rose was_ and _so so sorry_ and _funeral_ and _sincerely_ and—no! His stomach heaves and catapults him forward, breath finally entering his lungs in a gasp. _No_. He pushes against the table with both hands with such force that he almost upends it, the card fluttering daintily to the floor as he propels himself away. _No_. This can’t happen. This _won’t_ happen. This is wrong.

His breath coming in jagged heaves of air, he backs away from the table and stumbles back into the TARDIS, slamming the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

Rose has just finished arranging the chrysanthemums when she hears the all-too-familiar grinding of gears from across the room. Tiny, half-forgotten fears like daggers slice through her chest for the first time in months as she turns around. The TARDIS. With the Doctor. Gone.

He’d said–he’d promised! Told her again and again that he’d do this with her by his side, that they would be equals in this world, that the very thought of being without her was too much to bear.

This Doctor, for all of his faults, is no liar. Just as angry tears begin to bite at her cheeks, she sniffs back her grief and remembers that. Sure, he still chooses to withhold valuable information when they collaborate with Torchwood, but never from her. Okay, so it took him seven months to tell Jackie that they were growing a TARDIS of their own, but in all honesty, Rose hadn’t pushed him too hard on that one in the first place, so it really wasn’t his fault. And yes, there are years of secrets he holds, centuries of loved ones and enemies and heartbreak and joy, memories he’ll probably never share with her, but she has her secrets, too. Things she’s simply never had time to tell him.

She wonders if she’ll ever see him again.

She inhales slowly through her nose. This can’t be happening. She’s never once doubted his promises of forever, whispered in bed against her cheek or shouted in Paris streets during their trip around the world, and she for a moment, she hears that old American song her mum loves– everybody plays the fool sometimes.

On her exhale, the sound of the universe echoes through her kitchen. She stands tall and stiff; she fully intends to chew him out… until he stumbles out of the TARDIS with something like grief in his dark eyes. And guilt begins to gnaw at her stomach. How could she ever doubt him?

"Rose?" he asks. His voice cracks. He stands before her, the same as he ever was, except now he carries a burden on his shoulders that reminds her of another man in another universe.

"Yes Doctor," she says, and he pulls her into his arms, runs a hand through her hair. "I’m here." She wants to know so many things– what did you do? where did you go? what happened?–but he beats her to it.

"How long was I gone?"

She pulls back to look at him. “Seconds, minutes–I don’t know. How long were you gone?”

"About three and a half minutes." He sighs. "It was an honest mistake, I swear." Rose frowns. Of course, she believes him. Always has, even when she was young and foolish. Now that she has seen the small cruelties of the universe, she thinks it’s possible that he really did just make a silly mistake.

"Best not do it again, mister," she says, a burgeoning smile on her face. "Or I’ll chuck the marmalade."

That wakes him up. He gapes at her for a moment before laughing a beautiful, hearty laugh. “Oh, Rose Tyler. That happens again, and I’ll buy the bin bags.” She reaches down for his hand and squeezes tightly.

"Where did you go?" His smile dies as he gazes at her for a long, long moment. "Doctor?"

And then his mood shifts so quickly she nearly gets whiplash. “Oh, just a quick jaunt to 32nd century Rome. Didn’t mean to go, like I said. I tripped and grabbed the damn dematerialization lever to steady myself. The coordinates were already set.”

She rolls her eyes. “Typical.” He pouts. “So you didn’t go sight-seeing?”

"Nah," he says, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. "No fun without a hand to hold." Again, he turns solemn. "You know I wouldn’t ever leave you behind, right?"

She turns away, guilt rollicking in her stomach. “I should pack a few bags,” she says. He catches her hand before she can get away from him.

“Rose.”

It would be so easy. To just say, “Yes! Of course!” and run into his arms. To brush it all aside. But he’s not telling her something. And by the look in his eyes, it’s something big. There’s all sorts of things it could be–a week away with someone new, a planet in the midst of unending war, a child in tears.

"Doctor," she says, staring at the bedroom door. "What happened in 32nd century Rome?"

She practically hears his body sag, that’s how well she knows this man. “You weren’t there.” And then he reaches for her waist, pulling her back against him. “But now you are. Here. With me. And… I think we should put this behind us.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” Rose wrenches herself out of his arms. “I have to take care of the flowers,” she says, turning back to the kitchen. The Doctor freezes for a moment. She looks back at him. “Where do you think I should put ‘em? I was thinking they’d look nice on the mant–”

“No!” he shouts before she can finish. Rose frowns at him, brow furrowed in confusion. “I mean, don’t you want to get started? We can be back in mere seconds–”

“If you get the driving part right,” Rose mumbles.

“–and they’ll be as fresh as ever,” he finishes, ignoring her.

Winking at him, she walks toward the TARDIS and presses her hand against the wood. “Let’s forget Rome. I want a planet. Somewhere distant.” She turns to him and smiles. “Somewhere new.”

“New? Distant planet? Got it!”

He pushes her into the TARDIS and hides a grin as she stares at the interior, taking it in for the first time. Of course she has seen their ship’s new interior, but she’s unused to it, to how the walls feel old and new all at once. Familiar, warm colors line the walls underneath sheets of glass so thin they look as though a single touch would break them. Instead of coral, thick branches made of glass curl up towards the ceiling, and the dim blue light of the time rotor shifts and dances across the walls, reflecting off of the walls. Her trainers click against the panels of the flooring. One thing remains the same–there’s a sunny yellow jumpseat next to the console, waiting to grow worn and dirtied like its counterpart a universe away. The Doctor leans against the console, which looks to be made of the same smooth glass as the time rotor. It is warm under her fingers when she reaches out to touch.

“Ready?” he asks, and for a moment–just the slightest sliver of a moment–Rose wants to ask him about the echo of grief in his dark brown eyes, in the lines of his face.

Maybe next time. “Ready!”

//

They materialize on a planet called Binoa. Rose steps out into the cool air and immediately reaches for the Doctor’s hand. He squeezes hers tightly and grins down at her. “By this time, humans have colonized Binoa, but there are a lot of differences between these humans and you.”

“Like what?” she asks as he begins to lead her down the pavement. Binoa certainly looks human–all skyscrapers and smog and rushing bodies in suits and skirts. A young child screams, red-faced and pouting, as his mother tries to pull him along with her. Traffic honks and a man on a bike nearly runs Rose over.

“Well for one, these humans are the descendants of those from Earth, but they’re also related to all sorts of peoples. Juna, N’losgos, even the trees of Cheem. We’re in an era of massive human imperialism.”

“So they’ve… danced?”

“Exactly!” She smirks. “What?”

“Perhaps I’m not so different from these people, then.”

He bumps his hip into hers and laughs. “That’s certainly true,” he says. “Now, there’s a little café on 2nd and Mahogany, back in the other universe. How about we see if it’s as good here as it is there?”

They wander through the streets, breathing in Binoa and soaking in its sights. There’s a gigantic park on the way to the café, and Rose decides she’s tired enough of city sounds to venture into the greenery, pulling the Doctor along, even as he complains about his growling stomach. Underneath the canopy of the trees, Rose feels her skin cool. She’d been sweating in the smoggy sun of the business district where they’d parked the TARDIS, so the shade is nice, even if she isn’t as dry as she’d like. Their stroll leads them to a field where hundreds upon hundreds of people lay on towels and blankets, reading from tablets and the occasional paperback novel, basking in the sunlight. Children race each other around their parents, laughing and shrieking and generally being a nuisance.

Rose smiled up at the Doctor as he squeezed her hand. “It’s like Central Park,” she says, thinking back to finally seeing Elvis and a late night meandering through Manhattan. “You almost kissed me there.”

“Yeah,” he replies, a distant look clouding up his beautiful features. “I almost did. Time wasted, I suppose.”

She rests her head on his shoulder. “Doctor,” she murmurs. “You can always kiss me now.”


	3. Chapter 3

He leans down, tilting his face forward to look at her. Her own gaze is playful, the corners of her eyes crinkled in mirth as a slight breeze blows through her golden hair. Each blonde strand dances merrily around her face, glistening in the rogue rays of sunlight which steal past the leafy overhead otherwise protecting them from the brunt of the noonday glare. It all reminds him so much of their day on New Earth–the landscape, the breeze, her hair stirring in the wind… her smile. He’d almost lost her that day too–to Cassandra–he remembers, his eyes darkening at the memory… he hadn’t been able to protect her on that trip, not really.

Just like his brief glimpse into the future is telling him he still is unable to protect her, even now.

He swallows, willing himself to calm down, to breathe–to stop his mind racing through the possibilities and implications of what he’d seen in their flat, hovering just a few weeks in their future. It wasn’t a fixed point in time at least–that’s good. Very, very good. Perhaps it was a hoax–someone having some sort of a sick go at him? No… he can still feel the remnants of his time sense scratching at the corners of his mind like sandpaper… he’d known full well something was very, horribly, irrevocably wrong as soon as he stepped foot in that flat. And if it hadn’t been for the detritus his future self had left behind… he might not have been able to come back at all. He might have had to stay there, to live like that, while Rose–

Something heavy and painful bubbles up into his throat and he swallows it down, staring into her eyes as if he were trying to burn the haunting image of the greeting card from his memory… she might have been completely lost to him, forever.

Her gaze turns questioning, almost worried, and an errant lock of her hair flutters across her face, partially obscuring it from his view. His thumb caresses the apple of her cheek, catching the lock as it curls around his fingers in the breeze. He brushes it back through her hair, entwining his fingers in her tresses and inhaling deeply as he brings his lips down to hers, soft and moist and pliant as she leans into his kiss.

He’ll never let anything happen to her. Not if he can help it. Universe be damned.

He wants to–needs to–drink her in, prove to himself that she’s really here, that he’ll never let her go again, no matter what–prove to his stomach that everything will be all right and it can stop somersaulting around in his abdomen the way it has been ever since he saw that damned card in their flat.

Rose will be fine. Everything will be fine. Perfect. Molto bene.

His touch is still tender but he grips her closer, sliding the fingers of one hand further through her hair while the other wraps around her back. He pulls her closer against him until he’s almost cradling her in his embrace, her chest and hips tight and hot against his own. Her own hands run through his hair as well, nails scraping against his scalp the way she did earlier that day in the kitchen, and he groans into her touch. Perhaps if he’d just stayed there with her, never gone back into the TARDIS, taken her to bed–

He sighs against her mouth and can feel her smiling through her kiss. No. It’s good that he didn’t. Now he knows they’re facing something… now he can stop it. Now he can protect her.

He opens his lips slightly, catching her top lip between his own as she slides her mouth against his, wet and cool. She inhales deeply and pulls herself up towards him, closer against his shoulders, as her tongue brushes gently across his bottom lip.

“Oi, get a room!” a woman calls out, and they break apart to see her shooting them an acerbic look as she pulls away a little girl who had been staring at them.

Rose pulls back. “Sorry…” she says to the woman’s back as she marches away, gaping child in tow.

Shyly biting her lip, Rose turns back towards him with a giggle, looking up at him through dark lashes. His hands drift to her waist and he once again nestles his body against her own as he lays his forehead against hers, not ready to pull away from her. He can feel her brow furrowing against his forehead and he closes his eyes… she knows him too well, he knows she can tell there’s something wrong. But he can’t tell her what he’s seen… it’s one thing for him to have seen their future–he’s still a Time Lord after all, with a time sense to guide him–but for her to have that much knowledge of her personal timeline could be a disaster. Without a time sense, she could make things worse. Set them in stone, even. She’s brilliant, and she’s the love of his life–but she’s only a human. Preventing that future timeline is his responsibility–he’ll need to do this alone.

“Are you alright?” she asks after a moment, her voice soft, head still resting against his own. He’s happy she can’t get a good look at his face, can’t see him wince and knit his lips together. He’ll fix this.

He has to.

And he will.

Nodding, he pulls back to flash her a quicksilver grin, and tugs at her hand to continue their stroll through the park.

“Never been better,” he says and looks away, not wanting to see if she believes him or not, keeping the grin on his face and sauntering along the edge of the park, his hand entwined with hers.

“Thought for a second there you didn’t want to kiss me…” she says.

He turns towards her, surprised, to find her grinning back up at him in jest, tongue caught between her teeth in a grin. Despite knowing that she’s joking he settles his arms once against her waist, looking at her earnestly.

“I always want to kiss you. And I plan to keep on kissing you. Now and the next day and the next day and the next. You’re stuck with me now. You’ve got the ring to prove it.”

“So this means you don’t mind being stuck with our mortgage too?” she teases.

He doesn’t take the bait or return the joke like she’s expecting, instead shaking his head and looking at her intently. “It’s not stuck. It’s perfect. Everything,” he says, his eyes dropping to her hand as he reaches out and takes it in his own, his thumb brushing over the glistening diamond of her engagement ring. “It’s more than I ever could have hoped for… this is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

“Me too,” she smiles, holding his gaze. Her eyes are tender but she looks almost pensive, like something is on the tip of her tongue–but the moment is broken as his stomach grumbles once more, and her lips quirk up in a grin as she eyes his abdomen warily.

“Better with souvlaki, though?” she asks, her eyes wide with mock seriousness.

At this, he laughs. “Yeah. Everything’s better with souvlaki.”

He secures her hand in his own, gently squeezing her fingers as she smiles up at him and they make their way out of the park and back towards the downtown area to find the cafe on 2nd and Mahogany.

–

The souvlaki is excellent… as is the assyrtiko, the moussaka, the galactoboureko and the baklava he insists on ordering in order to fully and accurately compare the restaurants across the universes. They’re there for hours sampling the menu, multiple dishes wedged up against each other and covering the entire white tableclothed expanse of their booth. He orders so much food that even on empty stomachs they can’t possibly finish it all–but he quickly declines the server’s offer of a take-away box to bring the leftovers back home, instead prying off a large, sticky chunk of the remaining baklava as he grabs Rose’s hand and heads for the door.

The streets are dark by the time they leave, strolling down the main boulevard of the city arm in arm. He jostles her with his elbow, holding up the flaky dessert encrusted with tiny pieces of crushed walnut, the sticky syrup almost dripping off his fingers. She pulls a face, shaking her head.

“It’s brilliant, honestly, Rose–you should try it. Just a bite!”

As he waves it in front of her in a way he’s sure is the epitome of enticing, she wrinkles her nose and laughs. She pushes away his hand with the proffered baklava all the while snuggling closer into his side in the night chill, drawing his other arm closer around herself.

“If you like it so much then why didn’t you want her to box it up for you so you could eat it at home? There was enough food left over to keep even you fed for days.”

He doesn’t answer immediately, turning his head across the boulevard. His eyes take in the brightly animated neon billboards as they dance against the velvet sky of the downtown area, advertising dinner shows and hotels and theatre and fashion. Of course he can’t bring her home… not yet. Not while there’s still so much for him to figure out about her timeline. And this place is perfect–this is a city that never sleeps, with enough entertainment here to keep them busy for days, if not longer.

Her eyes are still trained on him, and she bursts into laughter as he pops the entire piece of baklava into his mouth, small flakes of syrup-covered crust drifting to the ground like snow as he crunches it between his teeth.

He looks down at her, wide-eyed. “Wha’?” he mumbles through his pastry.

“You’re gonna burst, mister! You and your tight trousers both, if you keep that up!”

At that, he looks down towards her with a wide grin and gives her a wink, drawing her closer against him and running the tips of his fingers down the length of her arm to catch her hand in his once more.

“Oooh tight? You like it though, don’t you?”

She throws her head back laughing, reaching her hand down and playfully grabbing a handful of his arse as they walk. He grins again, kissing the top of her head, and his eyes flick back up to the neon billboards.

“What do you say we catch a show?”

“Hmm I dunno,” she says. She stops walking and turns to face him, sidling up against his chest, pressing her chest into his torso and letting her hands drift back down to his arse… “I’d prefer to catch some of this,” she says, her voice dropping to a purr as she places a slow, soft kiss to the hollow of his throat.

He hums in approval, drawing her closer. “Hotel then?” he murmurs.

She pulls back, shaking her head, as his fingers rest on her waist, his thumbs grazing the strip of bare skin between her top and her jeans.

“I didn’t have time to pack a bag, remember?” she says, slowly dragging a finger down his chest, from clavicle to waistband. “Someone was in a hurry to leave the flat today.”

“So?” he whispers, his voice breathy.

“So I’ve been sweating all day long, and I have nothing to change into. Besides, mum was supposed to call this afternoon, and she’ll be worried if I don’t at least call her back, you know how she gets–”

“So call her…” he says, his lips grazing over the soft flesh of her ear. “And make it quick.”

“I don’t have my phone,” she says with a laugh, pulling away from him but keeping his hand in her own. She tugs him down a side street that leads back to the TARDIS. “Plus it’s not supercharged yet–”

“Rose…” he whispers, coming to a halt.

“We’ll make it quick,” she says, giving his hand a squeeze. He doesn’t move, and she drops his hand, backing down the street. “Change of clothes, grab my phone–then we can come back here… or spend the night in bed. Whatever you like.”

She turns to walk down the side street, and dark as it is, he’s forced to start moving again if he doesn’t want to lose track of her entirely.

“See? TARDIS is right here. Won’t take but a minute,” she says, brandishing a key from her pocked to open the door and stepping inside.

He stands on the street a moment longer as the door clicks shut behind her, before sighing deeply and following her into the TARDIS.


	4. Chapter 4

Apparently, he gets the landing a bit wrong, which doesn’t particularly surprise Rose, but it means she has to listen to her mum’s worried messages on the answering machine, little Tony’s cries echoing in the background.

“ _Rose, it’s mum_ ,” the harried voice of Jackie Tyler fills the kitchen. “ _You missed dinner, and your father’s got papers for you to sign. He says you haven’t been in the office for three days! Well, I haven’t heard a damn thing from you—Lucy, please take Tony up for his bath—or the Doctor, and neither has that charming old couple from across the hall!_ ” Rose rolls her eyes. The poor Rochesters, who spent years in comfortable retirement before meeting the whirlwind that is her partner, would certainly have noticed their disappearance. Or at least the sudden quiet. _“Anyway, please let me know what’s going on when you get this message. See you on Thursday. Kisses_.”

Beside her, the Doctor fingers a chrysanthemum petal and whistles a jaunty tune. “Doctor, I’m gonna kill—”

“ _Hi Rose, it’s mum again. Now I bet you’re just dealing with that nutter of yours, but it’s really not fair for you to just leave me hanging like this! Remember our appointment? You know, with the wedding planner? The one whose name I got from Victoria Beckham?” Rose groans. She’d completely forgotten about the wedding, what with the TARDIS being ready_.

“ _Turns out she’s a bit particular about first impressions, and since you decided not to show up, she didn’t get to make any. So now I have to find someone else to manage things for us. I would do it myself, but I’ve got the charity dinner to organize, and Tony’s up to no good. Just wait ‘til you have kids. You’ll see what it’s like.” Jackie takes a loud breath. “So… you know, just call me, sweetheart. I’m getting worried_.”

Rose frowns as she goes through four more messages, as well as six texts on the mobile she’d left on the kitchen counter. “Okay, so mum probably thinks we’re dead,” she says after a moment, glaring at the Doctor, who had the decency to look vaguely ashamed of himself. “Put some water in that vase, will you?”

She grabs the phone and dials her mum’s number, mentally preparing herself for the wrath of Jackie Tyler. Who picks up after half of a ring.

“Rose? Where the _hell_ have you been?”

“Mum, I’m so sorr—”

“I mean, I have put up with endless nonsense thanks to that man of yours, but I thought we’d put all of this behind us, at least until that blasted blue box of yours gets built all the way.”

“It’s grown, not built,” she says without thinking. Quickly, before her mother can start up again, Rose gets to the point. “The TARDIS is ready, mum.”

“Is it?”

“Yeah.”

“Ah.” Jackie stays quiet for a good, long moment. Tension builds in Rose’s stomach. “Well, at least it wasn’t twelve bloody months this time.” The other woman sighs into her phone. “I should have known. But for some stupid reason I expected you to let me know before you went gallivanting across the stars again.”

Rose feels something cold like guilt well up inside her; her eyes sting with tears. “Mum,” she begins. “I am so, so sorry. It was just a few hours for us. The Doctor got the day wrong—”

“—well, there’s a shock!”

“—and I forgot to pack a bag, too. We were just… I dunno, caught up in the moment. I’d kinda forgotten what a rotten driver he is.”

The Doctor nearly drops the vase. “Oi!” Rose rolls her eyes.

“So, are you planning on stopping by before you take off?” Jackie asks. “Or am I just going to tell Tony that his big sister doesn’t care enough to say goodbye?”

“We’ll be there, mum.”

She can hear the older woman smile. “I’ll have Bridget make something nice for dinner. Since you missed last weekend and all.”

“Of course. The Doctor loves Bridget’s cooking,” she replies. The Doctor blanches. “See you in at six!”

“Love you.”

As Rose hangs up, she preempts the Doctor’s complaints. “We are going to dinner, and you are going to drink my father’s wine and talk politics and feed Tony his dessert.”

“Rose—”

“And as for our means of transport, we’ll take a cab.”

“But—”

“I don’t care what you think of Bridget’s cooking, you are not going to make my mum cry again. Unless they’re tears of happiness.” She sighs, watching him duck his head in shame. She leans over and presses a kiss against his collar. “I don’t blame you, and I don’t think mum does either. Not really, at least.”

“You think?” he asks nervously.

“Of course,” she says, fixing the chrysanthemums’ placement in the vase. The flowers, though wilting, still hold their color. She smiles up at him. “You’re too handsome to be blamed for anything.”

He preens a bit before cringing. “Ugh, your mother thinks I’m handsome?”

“She does have eyes, you know.”

He sniffs. “I suppose that can’t be helped.” She rests her head on his shoulder and gives him a _look_ , the one she knows he can’t resist, the one she uses when she really wants to get her way. And what she wants right now—besides a bath—is for the Doctor to relent. Oh, he’ll join her, that’s not the trouble. It’s whether or not he’ll come kicking and screaming, juvenile like Tony, that worries her. And usually, her worries are warranted.

However: “What time does she want us there, then?”

Rose breathes a sigh of relief. “Like six-ish,” she says as she hurries off into their bedroom. Looking at her watch, she frowns. They don’t have much time. She pulls out a big blue suitcase from their closet and zips it open. She takes a breath. Stares at her closet, studies the colors and patterns and fabrics until she rips her favorite light pink sundress off of its hanger. Its cotton feels soft between her fingers. She folds it neatly, not for the first time thankful for her retail experience. “Come on, Doctor. We need to pack!”

Shirts and jeans and skirts and knickers and bras and socks and shoes make their way into her suitcase, then toothbrushes and tubes of toothpaste and her hair brush and the shampoo that smells like chocolate; her birth control, her anxiety medication. Jewelry and cosmetics and skin care regimen.

They work in companionable silence, a dance around a flat that’s the same size on the inside as it is on the outside, and by the time Rose sinks into her bath, the Doctor is carrying their things into the TARDIS. She hears him complaining to himself as she shaves, one leg sticking out of the water, foot perched on the ledge as she guides her razor up her calf. When she finishes, she switches legs, just in time for the Doctor to stride into the bathroom and kneel beside the tub. He raises a brow, rolls up his shirtsleeves and wordlessly reaches for the shampoo (the one that smells like mint).

She shaves as he lathers, his nimble fingers working through her hair like its an honor to touch her, to massage her scalp, to be in her very presence. She sighs contentedly as she returns her leg to the water, smiles as he carefully rinses the shampoo out of her hair. When he’s done, she looks up at him and catches the look in his eyes, the loving glint no longer hidden like it was in the old days, the times when he was so scared of losing her that he kept her at an arm’s length. For a moment, she thinks of the man with two hearts, alone and tired in another world.

“What is it?” he asks.

“I love you,” she says, and he kisses her. She smiles against his lips, thinks about how he’s already dressed for dinner and how he’ll need to change again if this continues. One hand cups her cheek as he deepens the kiss; the other knits itself into her wet hair. She sits up straighter in the tub, presses against the side and grips the slippery edge. He pulls away far too soon.

“Rose,” he mumbles, and she tastes the word on his breath. “We’re gonna be late to your mum’s if we carry on.”

“Don’t care.”

“Well, you’re not the one whose arse she’s gonna kick.”

“True, true.” She gazes up at him through long lashes. “And I suppose I rather like your arse the way it is.”

—

They arrive at the Tyler mansion only a few minutes late. She smooths his lapel outside of the cab. He smiles down at her, humming something pretty under his breath.

“What’s that, then?”

He stops humming and looks down at her. “Pachelbel’s Canon. I’ve had it stuck in my head for days now.”

“It’s lovely,” she says. “It sounds like a wedding.”

“Well, it’s often played at human weddings.”

Before the Doctor can knock, little Tony Tyler rushes through the door, held open by Jackie. “Rosie!” he shouts, tumbling into her legs and squeezing tightly. Rose lifts her brother into the air and laughs.

“You silly boy,” she says, tickling his belly. “Have you been good for Mummy?”

“He’s been a right little terror,” Jackie answers as they walk through the foyer. “Even you weren’t this much of a handful when you were his age, Rose. Hello Doctor,” she adds. “Bridget did up a turkey.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Well, since you’re gonna be gone for who knows how long, I figured we should have a nice meal. In case it’s months before you stop by.” Rose opens her mouth but Jackie cuts her off. “And don’t give me that ‘we’ll be back in ten seconds’ nonsense. We all know his driving’s not that good.”

The Doctor pouts but says nothing as Jackie leads them to the dining room. Pete stands by the table, pouring wine into the glasses. Even after all this time, seeing him has quite the effect on Rose. She smiles to herself, puts Tony down into his highchair and leans over to kiss her adopted father’s cheek. “Hi Dad,” she says. “Sorry for the scare.”

“You’re lucky it was a quiet week,” Pete says, pouring the rest of the wine into the decanter. “I don’t know what we’d have done if there’d been trouble. Mainly had to deal with Jacks worrying about you.”

“And that’s an awful lot to deal with,” the Doctor adds as he sits beside Rose. Jackie throws him a dirty look; Rose kicks his shin under the table. “Ow!”

“Anyway,” Pete continues. “President Jones needs your signature on something. I kept telling her that you took a much deserved holiday, but apparently there’s a time constraint on this one.”

“What is it?” Rose asks. “Why wouldn’t she go to you?” There are protocols that are generally followed when the government needs Torchwood, and though she is fairly high up in the organization’s ranks, she’s not higher up than Pete or even the Doctor, who doesn’t even officially work there.

“Well, I really don’t know. The president made it quite clear that this is for your eyes only.” He looks pointedly at the Doctor. 

“Do you have the papers here, then? I could sign them before we leave tonight.”

Pete shakes his head. “They’re in a vault at Torchwood, so you’ll need to come in tomorrow, I’m afraid.”

Rose frowns. “We were planning on leaving tonight.” She feels a hand squeeze her thigh, and she smiles ruefully at the Doctor. “Tomorrow. Then you can take me anywhere you please.”

“At least we got the packing out of the way.” The Doctor sips his wine. “This is very nice, Pete.”

“Actually, I picked it out,” Jackie says. “When we were in Rhone.”

“Really,” he says, shocked. “I didn’t know you were a wine connoisseur.”

“I’ve got my talents, you don’t have to act so surprised.”

Rose rolls her eyes. “Dad took her to France for their honeymoon and taught her about wines and stuff.”

“Well, color me impressed, Jackie Tyler.”

 


	5. Chapter 5

The thrum of the morning rain on the window of the car that picks them up the next morning is echoed by the beat of his fingers drumming an impatient pattern on the armrest. It’s usually a ten minute ride, tops—and it’s already been almost twenty. What is taking so bloody long to get there? Get in, sign the papers, and get out—that’s the plan. It has to be the plan—he can’t risk anything else. Any more time than necessary spent in that bloody Torchwood building and the team leads would likely try to reel both Rose and him into an assignment—Torchwood has an unfortunate habit of sending Rose off to parts unknown, with or without him. Oh, he understands why—she’s one of their best agents, but their pattern of foisting dangerous assignment after dangerous assignment upon her had already started to worry him even before he’d found… what he’d found… in their flat. She’d already come back from helping out on previous assignments he hadn’t even been _told_ about with her arms purple from bruises from where a Sontaran had grabbed her, or bandages wrapped around her hand from where an robot’s pincers had cut deeply into her soft flesh. And each time she’d say it didn’t hurt that badly, didn’t matter—she was defending the earth, fighting the kinds of monsters they’d always fought, just like they’d always done.

 

He’s been so blind. Her life has been in danger this whole time—every time she stepped foot into that building. He can’t let that happen again.

 

Torchwood had phoned Rose before the first rays of dawn had even slid through their bedroom blinds to inform her that they were sending a car bright and early. Of _course_ they would—he thinks with a roll of his eyes. Even in this universe, Torchwood insists on exercising near-total control over both only alien gadgetry but their alien experts as well. _If it’s alien it’s ours_ with a bonus of _if it’s an alien expert it’s ours too_ , apparently. But as usual, leave it to them to stumble in where they’re not needed and cock up everything—even a simple car ride.

 

He sighs deeply, blinking back the fatigue weighing down his eyelids, making the sandpaper surface rub even harder against his bloodshot eyes. Stupid human body… he almost never stays up a full night without sleep anymore—he certainly hadn’t made a habit of it as a Time Lord. He used to be able to do things like that without a second thought when he had two hearts… everything is more difficult now in this half-human body.

 

But this had been too crucial for him to even be able to _consider_ sleep.

 

He’d been up most of the night after he and Rose had gotten home, forcing himself to think— _think!_ —about the most likely source of danger to Rose. She had fallen asleep almost immediately after they’d made love, fervent but tender, and he’d stayed in bed while holding her, feeling her breath dance gently over the hair on his chest and her feeling her strong, beautiful heartbeat through his fingers grazing softly over her skin. She was so vibrant… so perfect. He’d let her drift off to sleep blissfully unaware, cocooned in their duvet, the blonde strands of her hair tousled around her head like a halo.

 

For the Doctor’s part… after she’d fallen asleep, he’d made a pot of coffee and gotten straight to work. First he’d hacked into the government databases—there were no terror threats on the horizon, no irregular geologic activity, not even as much as a public demonstration planned over the next few weeks. Everything had seemed completely unremarkable. He’d wracked his brain for memories of similar events in the other universe, but had come up short. There was nothing. He’d even gotten into Torchwood’s monitoring system, which showed no alien activity anywhere near their solar system—although this information was largely meaningless. Their agents are only human, and the complexity of trying to even write the software to analyze alien activity is beyond their limited ability to even understand such matters. Not that they’ve botched anything _yet_ … but it’s only a matter of time.

 

All the dead ends leave him with two possibilities: the first possibility is that whatever takes Rose away from him might be an accident, which he’s quite sure he can prevent on his own. He’ll just have to remain on high alert for the next few weeks and spend as much time at Rose’s side as possible. Simple enough.

 

The second possibility is that that what happens to her could all be Torchwood’s fault. Which is far more likely to be a problem. Bloody _stupid_ ‘experts’ thinking they know everything...

 

Their car idles at a traffic signal, even after the damn thing turns green. He watches as a single droplet of water meanders down the glass pane, joining with another in a rivulet and then speeding up, disappearing down the car door and out of his view. Even the damn _raindrops_ are moving faster than their car.

 

“Sorry it’s taking so long—there’s construction up ahead, I think,” the driver says. He’s just a boy, can’t be much older than his late teens… probably one of Torchwood’s new trainees. They like to give new recruits simple assignments at first to make sure they don’t cock up the basics before giving them weaponized alien gadgetry to blunder around with.

                                                                                                                                                                    

“S’ok, no rush,” Rose says, giving the boy a small smile in reassurance before turning to rest her hand on the Doctor’s forearm. He feels her eyes on him and stills under her touch, forcing himself to stop his finger-tapping. She’s still looking at him though, and he knows _her_ well enough to know that she can sense there’s something pulling at him, gnawing at him from the inside. She’s good—too good—at reading him. He gives her a tight smile and turns his attention to the driver.

 

“There’s a shortcut up here,” the Doctor says, whipping his thumb around to gesture towards a side street. “It looks like an alley but takes you straight through, then you can just pull up in the loading area near the back of Torchwood One.”

 

The boy nods and slowly maneuvers the car around the line of vehicles still stopped at the traffic signal, leaving only centimetres between their car and the other ones lining the street as he squeezes by them. His shoulders tight, he visibly winces every time a horn honks at him until he gets enough clearance to turn down the alley as the Doctor had instructed. And _finally_ they’re moving… the Doctor leans back in his seat, breathing a sigh of relief for _that_ at least.

 

“Better?” Rose says, moving her hand down his arm to lace his fingers with her own. Her tone is teasing and he musters a smile for her, squeezing her hand.

 

The next bit happens so suddenly that he doesn’t fully register what’s going on.

 

Just ahead of the car a teenage girl darts across the street, not even looking both ways to see if there is traffic coming. Their driver slams on the brakes and their car stops short—and despite being buckled in beside him, Rose pitches forward at the waist from the momentum, her hair flying like a curtain between them, obscuring her from his sight. For that split second—a microcosm, an eternity—his throat closes and he’s strangled, crushed under the weight of inevitability, the heavy air in his lungs screaming for release— _NO_ and _ROSE_ are the only words he knows, the only things he cares about, and his heart seizes, unable to do more than scream silently, the deafening sound of blood rushing through the arteries to his brain _._

 

On instinct, his arm darts out to protect her, to hold her against the seat—but his human reflexes are an instant too late, his forearm instead catching her in the solar plexus. She coughs on the impact with his elbow, pitching back against the seat, one hand covering the place his arm hit, the other brushing her hair back.

 

“Rose,” he gasps, his heart beating so fast that his hands are shaking, “Are you—”

 

“Oww,” she says, coughing out a laugh and rubbing her chest with the heel of her hand. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

 

“You alright?” the boys says, turning around, his eyes wide. “I’m so sorry—”

 

The Doctor’s eyes snap up to meet his, cold and fierce, and the boy cuts himself off, swallowing down his apology with a gulp.

 

“You need to be more careful,” he says, the words rolling from his lips like thunder.

 

“I—I’m sorry, Mr. Smith—”

 

Something in him flashes and the storm is unleashed. Having to play Torchwood’s games because Rose wanted to help them—finding that awful card in their flat less than 24 hours ago—this almost-accident, with this almost-Torchwood agent who in a few months’ time would likely be joining them on the front lines, guns blazing—being called by his bloody _stupid_ human pseudonym, all because _Torchwood_ insisted that he needed human paperwork... In that moment it is all too much and a torrent of anger crashes over him, seething out from between his lips before he can stop it.

 

“My name is _the Doctor_ , and we’re _leaving_ ,” he says, shoving open the car door.

 

“What!? _Doctor_ —” Rose says, furrowing her brow, looking from the Doctor to the driver, her face half horror and half confusion as the door flies open, a gust of rain splattering onto the leather seat beside her as he gets out of the car and into the morning drizzle. “Wait a minute! Hold up—”

 

Mumbling an apology to the driver, she scrambles out of the car, stumbling over the curb as she leaps to avoid the gush of water down a gutter. He hears the car door close behind them and feels her quick pace behind him, then feels her firm grip on his arm. She drags him under a nearby store awning, a sunny yellow and white escape from the downpour and turns towards him, her eyes flashing.

 

“What the _hell_ was that about? You didn’t need to be so rude to him—he’s just a kid! You’re the one who told him to turn there, and you _know_ how many pedestrians there are around here—”

 

“You could have been hurt—”

 

“Our car was _barely moving_ —your elbow would’ve done more to me than him stopping short did! I was _fine_!!”

 

“ _This_ time!” he spits back, and it’s a desperate plea, almost a growl, and so, so obviously not just about a stupid car ride that she pauses, her expression softening. He can’t look at her, can’t bear for her to see him nearly unraveling in front of her, and he closes his eyes to put himself back together.

 

“Doctor… what’s wrong?” her tone is soft… and she knows, she always _knows,_ when something isn’t alright.

 

“Nothing,” he swallows, using every bit of his 904 years of practice to school his features, snapping a mask firmly in place before opening his eyes once again, blinking slowly. He sniffs. “Nothing at all.”

 

“Does this have anything to do with why you were up all night?”

 

Oh. He hadn’t realized she’d known that. He pauses, his eyebrows raising in poorly-concealed surprise as he swallows down a chink in his armour—

 

“I _did_ come to bed…” Granted it had been near _dawn_ , mere minutes before Torchwood had phoned, but even so.

 

“You didn’t sleep…” she says, and it’s not an admonition… just a gentle observation.

 

He swallows. “Can we—can we just get this over with and then _leave_? I don’t want to be there—”

 

“You didn’t have to come with me—” she says as she reaches up, her damp fingertips trailing over his temple. He knows he has bags under his eyes, dark and heavy, but her touch eases the weight—just for a moment—and his eyes drop shut as he relaxes under her ministrations. He leans into her hand and it feels like peace, cool and gentle against his forehead, relieving the hot thrum of his pulse which is making his head ache.

 

“I don’t want _you_ to have to be there either…”

 

“But it’s what we do, yeah?”

 

“We, yes, _you and me_ —but I don’t trust _them_ ,” he says, his level, earnest gaze meeting hers, and this is as honest as he can possibly be. He may not be able to tell her about the threat to her life, but he damn well can tell her this. “I want to keep you safe, Rose. I can’t—I can’t do this without you. Not any of it.”

 

“You don’t need to—I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere,” she says with a smile, lacing her fingers through his own once again. The contact isn’t enough for him—not after all this—and his arms encircle her protectively as he draws her into an embrace.

 

“Yeah,” he says, breathing the word against her skin, holding her tight against him.

 

—

 

True to Rose’s word they spend as little time as possible in Torchwood One. She’s ushered into a private suite to sign off on whatever papers Harriet Jones had left waiting for her, and he’s left pacing outside the steel and glass door, nose practically pressed against it in impatient anticipation. He can tell she’s trying to focus on the paperwork, ever-the-trained-professional that she is—but from her coy smile he can also tell she feels his gaze, the dam of pent-up energy about to burst through the glass doors and sweep her away if she takes much longer. She bites back a smile and shakes her head in mock exasperation as she _finally_ puts down the pen and exits the office, giving him a pointed stare.

 

“You look like a puppy begging to go outside so he doesn’t wee in the house,” she says with a laugh.

 

“And _you_ said one minute—that was one and a _half_ minutes and—”

 

An agent steps up to them, clearing his throat softly.

 

“Thanks, Agent Tyler,” the man says. “If you have a few minutes, there’s something you might be interested in—an empath humanoid arrived via teleport early this morning. His Shadow Proclamation paperwork seems to be in order and it’s a standard protocol meet and greet, but we’ve never met one of these before and if you wanted to help that would be—”

 

“ _No_ ,” the Doctor says, his lips embracing the word like a long-lost friend as he entwines his fingers with Rose’s and pulls her down the hall.

 

“You weren’t kidding, were you?” She says with a laugh. “You’re _that_ eager to be off-world? Hmm so where to today—different planet perhaps?”

 

“Your wish is my command, Rose Tyler—but first there’s someplace we need to go.”

 

—

 

He’d set the coordinates carefully—he’d been heavily researching the particulars of this trip for _weeks_ to make sure the order of events had been the same in both universes. Which—thankfully—they were. As the TARDIS rematerializes and the engines grind to a halt he checks the coordinates one more time just to be sure—and his landing is perfect. He bolts to the doors, Rose following him with a skip in her step, but he doesn’t open them—not yet—instead letting his hand rest on the latch as he turns to face her.

 

“So… where are we?” she says slowly and _almost_ patiently, her eyes traveling from him to the doors and back again.

 

“The _when_ is just as important as the where, and _when_ we are is August, 1969. The _where_ is a field on Max Yasgur’s dairy farm in Bethel, New York. Up to five hundred thousand people came here— _imagine_ that—actually, you don’t have to imagine that, because, Rose Tyler, here we are—”

 

The door flies open with a flourish, and a wave of oppressive, muggy heat enters the TARDIS. The air is abuzz with voices—hundreds of thousands of voices—singing and chanting and talking, and every syllable vibrates with the sound of music pulsating off at some distance beyond where they are parked. In front of them is a mass of humanity—half-naked teenagers, and _entirely_ naked teenagers, and babies, and young girls with flowers in their hair or sunhats and halter tops—some of them sitting in circles sharing weed, some dancing, some singing or clapping or even passed out in the afternoon sun.

 

As the pulsing riff of a bass guitar thrums into life from a stage in the distance, he looks up and smiles in recognition.

 

“Ah! Keef Hartley—the first British band to perform here—”

 

“And here is…” she asks with a smile, and she clearly knows the answer.

 

“Where d’ya think?” he asks, a broad smile spreading across his face.

 

“Woodstock?!” she says with a laugh, flinging herself into his arms.

 

“Right in one! So we have plenty of time before she’s set to begin—”

 

“And by ‘she’ you mean…”

 

“Why _’Pearl’_ herself! The legendary Janis Joplin of course,” he sniffs. “Left my coat in the other universe and I’m not passing up the chance to pick one up in this one.”

 

They step out into the mud, which crunches under their feet gravelly and thick, the afternoon sun beating down on them as hot and hard as the rain that had likely made the ground this muddy to begin with. The rain isn’t the only thing that’s made the ground sopping wet—there’s a water spigot, probably normally used for getting water to the cattle who live here—and it gushes a spray of water. Nobody seems to mind—drinking from it, washing their hair—a few children even dance in the spray, splashing around, flower children dancing in a muddy rainbow of their own making. Hundreds of people stand patiently in line for their turn as it gushes out a dirty river around them. Rose tugs on his hand with a laugh and they turn down a slightly drier path with a handmade sign identifying it as High Way, and they breeze their way through hazy clouds of THC rising up out of the thousands of parked cars and soggy tents and sleeping bags littered around them.

 

The long grass is damp, still hanging onto the dewy remnants of the rainstorm that had ended, per his research, just hours before, and it tickles against their legs as they walk. Hand in hand, they meander past school bus after school bus, their worn yellow surfaces brightened with sloppy paint, slogans of peace and at least one Alan Ginsberg poem telling onlookers about wandering _around and around at midnight in the railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, leaving no broken hearts_ in nearly illegibly periwinkle blue that’s already starting to flake off. They step over piles of litter and circumvent wet campsites where nuns hand out sandwiches to topless young women, and a sunburned young man offers some LSD to anyone who can hook him up with something to drink.

 

It is beyond nearly anything of even _his_ imagination.

 

They continue on for a while, swimming through this muggy sea of peace and drugs and psychedelic music, and it’s too hot for them to remain arm in arm—or even hold hands, their clothing clinging to their skin in the humidity.

 

A group of dancers pinwheel around in a loose circle, their long, damp hair hanging free as their feet slosh through the mud, flinging their arms up to the air, waving their hands like tree branches in a gentle breeze. A small girl with a daisy in her hair grabs his hand, spinning him around, an invitation to the dance. He smiles down at her, giving her a twirl back into the circle, then turns around towards Rose—

 

—or rather, towards the spot where she stood a moment before.

 

“Rose?” he asks, turning around, his trainers sloshing in the mud. She doesn’t answer. His head darts left and right, but all he sees around him is a circle of youths dancing, the air thick from the smoke of cigarettes and hashish.

 

“Rose?” he calls louder.

 

As surreptitiously as he can he pulls out his mobile and calls her number—he upgraded both their mobiles to superphones now. The GPS indicator only informs him that both phones are in the vicinity, which is _hardly_ helpful, considering that _everything_ is in the vicinity of everything else here, crowded as it is. He shoves the phone back into his pocket lest anyone notice the contraption—although by the looks of it, most of the people here are far too stoned to care.

 

The last strains of _Spanish Fly_ dissipate into the hot August air like steam rising from an oven, and Keef Hartley dives right into their next song, the ominously-titled “She’s Gone”. He swallows… turns around. His elbow crashes against a jogger, inexplicably naked except for the fig leaves covering his genitalia, and he stares at the man, startled.

 

“Peace and love, man! Peace and love!” the man shouts after him as the Doctor spins around again, darting through the crowd to look for Rose.


	6. Chapter 6

The smell of smoke and rain wafts around her body, the mud cakes on to her trainers. It’s intoxicating, just being here, around these people with their simple love of music, kissing and making love under the gray sky. Out in the open.

It’s times like these that remind her of how much she’s changed since she was nineteen. Her very morality has changed—or at least, she has learned to accept other people’s moralities, like the Doctor told her to do, so very long ago in that dingy old Cardiff morgue.

She wonders, not for the first time, who she’d be if she hadn’t met the Doctor. Probably dead. Definitely not the Rose Tyler she was meant to be. Rose doesn’t much believe in destiny or fate, but after seeing Donna Noble in that world without the Doctor, she suspects she doesn’t know much at all about the ways of the universe. Maybe she was that guiding force, once upon a time when the golden gasps of time swelled in her veins. Maybe she’s always been.

 

Shame she can hardly remember. Or perhaps it’s a blessing, sealed with a kiss.

The Doctor lets go of her hand to twirl with a girl who looks barely sixteen (Rose wouldn’t be surprised if she’s still in school) and laughs like he’s not laughed in ages. The sound warms her like fine whiskey, but it’s got a bitter aftertaste—she wishes for a moment that she could be the source of his burdenless joy again. While he still looks at her like she’s an oasis in a desert and he’s a man dying of thirst, lately there’s been a hard edge to his dark eyes that worries her.

He loves her completely, and she wonders if it’s going to be the death of him. Again.

And suddenly, she needs space. Air to breathe that he’s not sharing. It’s odd, feeling like she needs to get away from him, especially after Canary Wharf and Bad Wolf Bay (part deux). She doesn’t really consider herself to be a clingy person, but she hasn’t had much time on her own since he’d come to live with her in this universe.

Attached at the hips, they’ve been.

And that’s when she sees her. The woman from the records. The legend. Jimmy had been a massive fan of classic rock, and he’d cluttered their dingy flat with relics from this era. Incense holders, concert posters and the records. Oh, the records. He’d had quite the collection collecting dust—Hendrix and the Beatles and Clapton, but his prized possession had been a mint condition Big Brother and the Holding Company album (Cheap Thrills, if she remembers correctly) from 1968.

She had quite enjoyed the raspy elegance of the singer’s voice, her inflections, her pain and angst. Of course, Rose had also been pretty stoned most of the time, and so she remembered very little of the actual music.

Janis Joplin herself is standing beside the stage nearest to the TARDIS, all wrapped up in a very familiar brown overcoat and clearly looking for a cigarette. It’s a bit surprising to Rose that she’s on her own, given how big of a star she is, but Rose takes one look at that coat and makes up her mind. Grinning to herself, Rose takes one look at her distracted Doctor and pulls one out of her pocket.

“Need one of these?” she asks the singer, who startles at her voice.

“Why yeah, I do. How could you tell?” Janis drawls, taking a long look at her before accepting the cigarette. She reaches into her bag for a lighter and takes care of herself before offering it to Rose.

“Tried to quit three times now. I can see when someone has the jitters. Besides, you’re holding an empty box of Marlboro’s.”

Janis laughs a deep, lovely thing. “The name’s Janis. What’s yours, English?”

“Rose,” she says. “That’s a nice coat.”

“Is it? Got it in the Haight last year, at some silly thrift store. It’s a bit hot out for an old coat like this, I know, but I get the chills sometimes and anyway, it’s like something my dad would wear.”

“I think it’s wonderful. And if it rains again, you’ll be set.”

Janis looks up at the gray sky. “Yeah, it does look like rain, don’t it?” She takes a drag on her cigarette. “So, who are you most excited to see?”

“Well, you, of course. The Doctor—that’s my fiancé—has all of your albums.”

The other woman looks at her like she’s just told her they have a spaceship that can travel through time and space. And then she bursts out laughing. “Oh, Rose, you’re funny. Like anyone’s got my albums. Nah, you must be thinking of someone else. Maybe Grace Slick? She’s real hip.” Rose frowns.

“No, but seriously. You’re not performing tonight?”

Janis stops laughing. “Uh, they only hired the stars. This is Woodstock. You know, they’ve been advertising it for months? Hendrix, Joan Baez, The Who? Even the nobodies aren’t nobodies here.”

“You’re not a nobody—”

“—Rose, where the hell have you—oh my god!” the Doctor says from behind her. “Janis bloody Joplin! Huge fan.” He holds out his hand, grinning down at the perplexed singer.

“Yeah… thanks. You are?”

“This is the Doctor,” Rose says. “Doctor, this is Janis.”

“Well, of course I know her name, Rose.”

Rose leans into him. “She’s not famous in this universe, apparently.”

“What?”

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I know. But apparently, that’s the deal.”

Janis, who had been quite friendly with Rose, stares at them. “The hell are you two talking about? What do you mean, ‘in this universe?’”

“Er, um…”

“It’s an English expression,” Rose says quickly. “It’s psychedelic, and all that.”

The other woman shrugs. “I’ll take your word for it.” She brings her cigarette to her lips and inhales. “So, what’s a police public call box, anyway? Saw you two come out of it before,” she adds, pointing at the TARDIS.

Rose stiffens. “W-what do you mean?”

“Wow, that’s amazing,” the Doctor says. He leans over to Rose. “Most people don’t see through the perception filter, their eyes just shift away. But certain people, mainly those who are especially intelligent, don’t feel the effects, even if they’ve never seen the TARDIS before. It’s like that time on Persephone when Prince Illias saw right through the psychic paper.”

“He said it was blank,” she replies.

“And he was right, of course,” he says to her, voice still low. “When I met the other universe’s Janis Joplin, she didn’t have the chance to see the TARDIS. But I imagine that had she, she would have seen past the perception filter, too.”

“Is it some sort of British thing to be rude all the time?” Janis asks, clearly irritated. “If you were fucking in there, all you had to do is say so. No one here’s gonna mind.” She chuckles. “In fact, they might join you.”

Rose blushes. On the stage, an Indian man sits down with his sitar and begins to play. “It’s beautiful,” she says over the music.

“That’s Ravi Shankar,” the Doctor says. “Brilliant man, absolutely fantastic musician. Worked with George Harrison a few years ago.”

“You’re very well read,” Janis says, taking a drag from her cigarette.

“Well, we’re part of a… music fan club back in London.” He winks down at Rose. The American woman raises a brow.

“So, when’s the wedding?”

Oh, in about four decades, Rose muses. “We’re thinking the spring.”

 

They wander through the crowd, just him and her and the most unfamous famous singer they’ve ever met, and every so often they stop to converse with a friendly concert-goer or two. Some of them are naked, covered in mud and smelling of skin and rain; some of them try to stay dry with makeshift newspaper umbrellas. The Doctor is clearly in his element—there’s no mystery here, just a hand to hold and a new friend.

Well. A new friend who happens to be one of the most beloved musicians in all of musical history, a universe away.

Rose smiles to herself as they stop and watch one of the performers—Arlo Guthrie, the Doctor says. “He might be a big old leftie right now, but like a lot of this crowd, when he gets older he turns to the dark side,” the Doctor whispers in her ear. “At least, in the other world.” Janis is too enthralled to notice.

“What about her?”

“What do you mean?”

She nods toward their new friend. “You can still see the timelines and all. What about this Janis? Now that’s she’s not, you know, famous. Maybe she’ll live a good, long life.”

The Doctor looks thoughtful for a moment, but there’s something dark in his eyes. “I suppose…”

“What?”

He shakes his head, as if pulling himself back from something awfully tempting. “I don’t make a habit out of looking into people’s timelines.”

“It would make things a lot easier, though,” Rose says. He nods.

“Sometimes the easy way is not the way to go.” The Doctor sighs. “Look, it’s like this. Suppose I read about a famous person’s death in a book somewhere. Or… I dunno… on a gravestone in a cemetery… that’s history, that happened.”

Rose frowns. “But timelines can be rewritten.”

“Not if they’ve already been read. But sometimes, we misread things. Or we don’t know the whole story, because we weren’t there to see it happen. So we, as time travelers, can intervene. In some cases.” He looks at her. “But not timelines. Once they’re read, that’s that. History has to take its course. And so I try not to look into them too deeply. Sure, I can feel them moving around us; it’s a sense, like smell or taste, so I can’t really help that, but looking deeply into them? Well, that way lies madness. I just… I can’t.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “I was just wondering.”

 

They spend their days camped out with Janis Joplin right near the stage where the Doctor parked the TARDIS. When it’s time to leave and the crowds have thinned, Rose remembers their initial reason for coming here in the first place.

She looks at the Doctor’s suit jacket, rolls her eyes at how he’s been determined to wear it through the whole three-day show. He’s been eyeing that overcoat of Janis’s, and apparently, the other woman has noticed, because she shrugs it off and hands it to him. “Take it, Doctor. It’s too big for me, anyhow. And honestly, it cost me ten dollars down at one of the thrift stores on the Haight. I can get another.”

“What, seriously?” Rose asks, stunned.

“On one condition,” Janis says. “You show me what’s in your box.”

On stage, Jimi Hendrix rages on his guitar, an ode to a flag.

Rose looks at the Doctor; the Doctor looks at Rose. “Oh, don’t think I didn’t notice how that thing just appeared outta nothing. And then no one seemed to give a flying fuck about that.”

“Oh that’s… that’s just brilliant,” he says. “You’re brilliant, you are. I mean, really.”

“The perception filter didn’t work on her,” Rose murmurs.

“Alright,” the Doctor says, as Janis hands him the coat. “You can see what’s in our box. But you can’t tell anyone what you see.” He slides into the overcoat and smiles broadly. Rose wants to cry, it’s such a lovely moment. The sight of him in that coat, even with his mucked up clothing… it’s just perfect.

“Why not?”

“They’ll cart you off to an insane asylum, no doubt,” Rose says.

The Doctor pulls out his key and unlocks the TARDIS door, pushes it open. “Go on,” he says to the other woman. “Take a look.”

Janis swallows loudly and peers inside.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay with this--it's for the same reason Spring Conditions was delayed! Since our last chapter was posted, I (kilodalton) graduated from pharmacy school, and had to both study for (and pass!!) my board exams so that I could officially start work. There were 2 board exams and this was a lot of pressure... ergo the massive delay. Thanks so much for your patience (and thank you to my co-author brighterthanroses for her patience as well)!! We hope you enjoy the chapter! =)

“This. Is fucking amazing!” Janis says with a laugh, circling around the console room, her eyes bright and arms open.

They’d spent the past few hours exploring the TARDIS—this version of the ship doesn’t have the full array of rooms as its counterpart in the other universe but all the same, it enchants her. The first stop is—of course—the music room. Janis makes a beeline for the guitar he keeps tucked away in the corner, ignoring the 33-string bazantar and the circular harp. Granted it’s not as impressive a collection as the thousands of instruments he’d managed to acquire in the other universe, but even so—there are more impressive things in there than just a Fender Kingman he’d bought on sale at a store on Denmark Street just last week.

As Janis’s fingers gently skim over the shellacked wood grain of the flattop acoustic though, he draws in his breath, holding back the joke he was going to make about it—the guitar would be something new to _her_ after all. Fender hadn’t started that line until well after her death—in the other universe, at least. She picks up the guitar and sits, legs crossed casually on the floor in front of her. She tunes it by ear—downtuning the 6th string into the drop D tuning that wouldn’t become popularized for decades—strums experimentally, and then changes her mind, tightening the string back into a perfectly tuned E. She brushes the strings with the side of her thumb, pushing the tight metal strings on the neck of the guitar under the calloused pads of her fingers, and strokes out a few chords he recognizes straightaway—the opening to _Mercedes Benz._ It was the last song she’d ever recorded in the other universe, and one of the few songs she’d written herself. She pauses after a few bars, looking back up at him and Rose with a smile.

“Just something I’ve been playing around with,” she says, her gravelly voice soft and almost shy. “I like to try new things.”

“’S beautiful—more than, even,” Rose says. “It makes me want to—”

Rose makes an expansive, gripping motion with her hands in lieu of finding the words she’s looking for, and Janis laughs, grabbing a hold of one of Rose’s outstretched hands to haul herself up.

“I’m glad you think so. That’s why it’s called the blues, English. You’re not supposed to skim over the top of it, like your feelings are above it. You’re supposed to get down into it… really _feel_ it, you know? The instrument though—man, that’s what’s beautiful.”

Next, they go to the zero room, where they float in a zero-gravity vacuum under a simulated constellation of stars reeling above them. It’s surreal, giving a tour of the TARDIS to one of his favourite musicians of all time, but for the first time in many, _many_ days he finds he can’t keep a grin off his face. He shoves his hands in the pocket of his coat— _his coat_ —and feels more like himself than he has in the year since he and Rose were deposited at Bad Wolf Bay.

Their next stop is the library, which has masterfully digitally restocked itself with copies of books and memory imprints from the other universe. As Janis wanders the room, bending over to peer at a collection of memory jars holding ancient Gallifreyan rites, he shoves his hands deep into his new-new-coat pockets and lets his feet wander over to the 20th century Americana music section. There, nestled beside copies of Rosemary Clooney’s _This For Remembrance_ and Bob Dylan’s _Chronicles_ is normally where he’d keep his copy of _Love, Janis_ —the biography her younger sister had written after Janis’s death.

It’s not there. He doesn’t even try to hold back his smile—perhaps this universe is more forgiving than their old one. Oh, it hasn’t given Janis the fame she deserves—not yet, anyway—but perhaps it’s intervened to spare her, and her family, the pain of—

As he turns away, he sees it, tucked slightly out of place next to _Chuck Berry: The Autobiography._ The binding of the book is frayed from multiple readings—so frayed in fact that he hadn’t recognized it at first. But it’s the same dog-eared copy he’d bought back in the other universe. _Love, Janis_ by Laura Joplin _._ He stares at it… willing it to be—to be _longer_ as if to accommodate the story of a much longer life—to be different somehow from the thin, unassuming book he remembers. And is it? Perhaps it is… he really can’t tell without opening it, but if he opens it and reads it, it’s as good as making it happen—

He swallows down something empty and hollow blocking his throat and doesn’t reach for it, not even to move it back where it belongs.

“Doctor—” Rose interrupts his thoughts. He steals a glance over his shoulder at her and she frowns.

“You alright?”

He sniffs, crinkling his brow in a way that he’s sure must come off as slightly annoyed, given her confused reaction. “Course I’m alright. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re just a little pale,” she says.

Janis looks from the Doctor to Rose and tips her head in a slight nod towards him. There’s something in her gaze he can’t quite read and it’s discomforting. “She’s got a point. You look like you’ve seen a ghost there.”

Something bitter drops in his stomach at her words and he almost wants to laugh. He looks from one to the other, both women that the universe may—or may not—intend to be snatched too soon, and he shrugs, the image of nonchalance. “Probably just the lighting. Let’s show our guest something a little more exciting than some stuffy old books, shall we?” he says. He forces a bright grin onto his face and leads them out of the library.

The women are silent behind him as he strides from the library into the console room, and he wouldn’t call the silence _awkward_ exactly but it’s still far from the hazy, jovial camaraderie of the past few days. Janis clears her throat.

“So you haven’t told me… does it fly?” Janis asks, eyeing the central column of the ship.

“Sure she does,” Rose says, her voice warm with pride as she glances over at the Doctor. “She can go anywhere.”

“So we can get closer to the stage? I missed the Joan Baez set…” Janis asks, her voice hushed conspiratorially.

The Doctor laughs. “Yeah. Yeah we can do that,” he says.

“S’not crossing our own timeline?” Rose asks, her eyes flicking up to meet his. She’s still smiling but he can hear the concern etched into her voice, a sensitivity to timelines born from years of Torchwood training and TARDIS travel.

He shakes his head, dismissing her concern with a sniff.

“You’re sure, Doctor?” she reiterates, and he doesn’t need to look at her to know that the expression on her face is likely a mixture of both casual and plaintive.

Even so, he smiles over at her, reassuring.

“Nah. No harm. Just a spot of fun, eh?” he says. He whirls back around towards the console, coat pirouetting behind him, and glances back at Rose and Janis. Janis is all smiles, running her hand up a strut of coral—and Rose’s smile is brighter now, eased. She trusts him after all, and he grins back at her. With a wink he flips a switch near the dematerialization lever, then cranks it clockwise and the ship shudders beneath their feet. It’s a flashy move—once he used to do all the time when they were traveling together in the other universe, and it would often send them sprawling onto the floor in a fit of giggles as the ship groaned its protestations around them. Time and a new universe has barely muted the effect—Rose laughs, clinging to the jumpseat with one hand and Janis’s outstretched palm with the other as the ship rocks under them.

Within moments they’re suspended in midair in front of the stage at Woodstock—two days in the past and half a kilometer away from where their past selves are are currently walking hand in hand through the crowd. He opens the front door of the TARDIS and moves back, letting Janis have the honours of the first view outside. Janis steps forward slowly, her hands clutching the doorframe as if for balance. He smiles—he _loves_ this part, seeing new friends find their own magic in the universe, helping to push them away from the confines of little the blue and green ball they call home. It’s moments like these he remembers why he always loved traveling with companions in the first place—they were always brilliant, always helped him save the world of course—but he was the Time Lord and it fell to him to show them their ability to _be_ so brilliant. Not ever as brilliant as _him_ , of course, but even so.

He swallows, hoping not for the first time that evening that the singer before him has a long, _long_ life in which to continue to shine.

Janis’s eyes dance, enchanted with the sight before her. Her gaze is riveted on the stage, and after a moment she turns to him and Rose with a chuckle.

“Damn. _Damn!_ ” she says over a laugh.

“Like it, then?” he grins back at her.

Janis doesn’t answer at first—not in words at least—but the hazy, awestruck look on her face is answer enough, and he smiles. She plops down, her calves dangling over the edge, watching the crowds dance and sway beneath her.

“From up here we’re so tiny, we barely look like people,” she says, squinting.

“All too easy to forget sometimes,” he says softly, with a slight nod of assent.

“Can they see us?” Janis asks, her gaze still riveted on the crowd below.

“Nope. Perception filter,” Rose answers. She sits herself down gingerly beside Janis, leaning her weight back on her hands and stretching her lean torso as she mimics the singer’s posture, her legs hanging casually over the edge of the doorframe as well. His stomach lurches at the sight—not that there’s inherently anything dangerous about the way the women are sitting, of course—he’d never have allowed this idea in the first place otherwise. He’s had companions sit the same way over the course of centuries, sitting half-outside, half-inside the TARDIS as they observed everything from the birth of nebulae to Sarah Bernhardt’s performance as a minstrel at Le Théâtre de L’Odéon… but it’s at least a ten metre drop to the ground and—

Rose tosses her head to grin at him over her shoulder, and the speed of the movement makes his pulse hammer in his throat.

“We can scoot over, Doctor—want to join us?”

“Nah,” he shakes his head. “I’m fine back here.”

“You sure?” Janis asks. There’s a smile in her voice, but one eyebrow is raised, and he shakes his head once again. Best not to all be crammed into the doorframe, as if they were sardines in a tin. If anything happens he can just as easily make a grab for Rose from his current position—and without the added worry of accidentally shoving her off-balance if he were to sit precariously beside her. Janis he’s not so worried about for the moment—whatever her fate ends up being, she has enough of a story left to tell to get a book written about her, but Rose…

Janis is still staring at him, and he’s saved from answering her question as the crowd below goes mad—even from this distance he can see them clapping, waving their arms as a dark-haired woman in a blue shirt, her belly swollen in the mid stages of pregnancy, takes the stage begins to play the opening strains of _Oh Happy Day_ on her acoustic guitar.

Janis claps, turning her attention back towards Joan Baez, and he sighs inaudibly, taking a seat behind the women on the grating.

—

Joan Baez’s set lasts for another hour, and she’s brilliant—truly she is—but folk music has never been something Rose has been interested in, and the soothing lull of the acoustic guitar combined with the late hour and the pitch black sky has her yawning before the set is half-over.

“Sorry, it’s just—” Rose says by way of apology.

Janis laughs, swinging her legs from her perch in the doorframe. “It’s fine, English. You can bug out—go on and crash.”

Rose leans her head against the side of the doorframe, relaxed— _too_ relaxed, in fact—and he reaches a hand down to her, scooching in between the two women and drawing Rose up close against him. Rose smiles, pillowing her head against his chest, and stroking the cuff of his coat with a soft smile.

“You shouldn’t fall asleep here… it’s dangerous,” he murmurs.

Rose pauses the movement of her hand to smile lazily up at him. “Nah. You’d catch me wouldn’t you? Course you would.” The last words of her sentence trail off, and within moments, she’s asleep.

Janis eyes them contemplatively, and they sit in silence for the next few minutes, the gentle rise and fall of Rose’s breath in time with _Let Me Wrap You In My Warm and Tender Love_. The deep blue blue spotlight on stage washes over Joan Baez like an halo of light, an aurora in the darkness. For the first time tonight he finds himself able to relax into the music and the moment and just… _be_. Rose is secure in his arms—she’s not going anywhere, and Time Lord that he is, he’ll fight the universe itself to ensure that she stays that way. Alive. And safe. With him. He shifts his posture, pulling his coat around them both, despite the warm midsummer night.

Janis leans her head against the doorframe, her face hidden like a secret by the long brown hair she hasn’t bothered to tie back. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a brown bag and tears off a piece of paper from within its depths. With a confidence that comes only from practice, she sprinkles the mix onto the paper and places the roach at one end, then folds it with her thumbs, using her thigh for leverage.

“Want one?” she says, as she wets and seals it. Her head has dropped forward for a better view of her work, and he wants to tell her that whatever drugs she does, just _keep_ it to marijuana, to do nothing else, ever again—but the words die on his lips.

He only manages to muster up a shake of his head. “Nah.”

She lifts the joint to her lips with a small motion he construes as a shrug, and lights it.

“So what happens?” she says, the words slightly muffled through her lips, slightly pursed around the joint.

“Pardon?”

“To her.”

He raises an eyebrow, the one arm instinctively drawing Rose closer. “I don’t know what—”

She looks at him then, the curtain of hair failing to obscure her piercing blue gaze. “You’ve been jumpy, English. This whole time we’ve been hanging out—talking about timelines and futures and how you can’t look. How that would make bad things happen. And look at _you_ ,” she says, inhaling a puff of smoke, motioning towards him with her free hand. “You’re so scared she’ll fall from here, or get lost in a crowd. And then in the library, you’d said all that stuff was from another universe, that _all_ of us were from another universe, and it was like—”

She cuts herself off, searching his face. It’s an expression he hasn’t seen on her before, like she’s steeling herself up for something. He’s not sure what she’s looking for, but he presses his lips together—he definitely doesn’t want to know what she thinks she sees, and he can’t meet her gaze, ducking his eyes down towards the stage. The crowd is fading—even the youngsters below them, hopped up on alcohol and sex and rock and marijuana though they are—are getting tired. Joan Baez’s next song doesn’t get nearly the applause he’d expect from a daytime crowd, and she begins the opening strain of her next song—the second to last song, if he remembers correctly. Which is just as well—it’s almost 2am now, and they need sleep—all of them need sleep. Clearly Rose does.

“It’ll be over soon,” he murmurs, nodding towards the stage.

Janis makes a sound halfway between a sigh and a cough, and from the corner of his eye he sees her shake her head.

“Yeah. I feel you, English,” she says, flicking the ash from her joint out the door. The dust scatters on the slight breeze, disappearing almost instantaneously into the sea of darkness below them.

Her next words are soft, as if they were an afterthought. “For what it’s worth, I wouldn’t want to know, either.”


End file.
